m round her waist. 'There is nothing bad--but a lie.'

'A lie may be so very bad!'

'Yes, indeed; and this lie is very bad. Do you remember my telling
you--about a woman?'

'That Mrs. Smith;--the dancing woman?'

'Yes;--her.'

'Of course I remember.'

'She was one of those, it seems, who bought the Polyeuka mine.'

'Oh, indeed!'

'She, with Crinkett and others. Now they want their money back again.'

'But can they make you send it? And would it be very bad--to lose it?'

'They cannot make me send it. They have no claim to a single shilling.
And if they could make me pay it, that would not be very bad.'

'What is it, then? You are afraid to tell me?'

'Yes, my darling,--afraid to speak to you of what is so wicked;--afraid
to shock you, to disgust you; but not afraid of any injury that can be
done to you. No harm will come to you.'

'But to you?'

'Nor to me;--none to you, or to me, or to baby there.' As he said this
she clutched his hand with hers. 'No harm, dearest; and yet the thing is
so abominable that I can hardly bring myself to wound your ears with
it.'

'You must tell now, John.'

'Yes, I must tell you. I have thought about it much, and I know that it
is better that you should be told.' He had thought much about it, and
had so resolved. But he had not quite known how difficult the telling
would be. And now he was aware that he was adding to the horror she
would feel by pausing and making much of the thing. And yet he could not
tell it as though it were a light matter. If he could have declared it
all at once,--at first, with a smile on his face, then expressing his
disgust at the woman's falsehood,--it would have been better. 'That
woman has written me a letter in which she declares herself to be--my
wife!'

'Your wife! John! Your wife?' These exclamations came from her almost
with a shriek as she jumped up from his arms and for a moment stood
before him.

'Come back to me,' he said. Then again she seated herself. 'You did not
leave me then because you doubted me?'

'Oh no,' she cried, throwing herself upon him and smothering him with
kisses--'No, no! It was surprise at such horrid words,--not doubt, not
doubt of you. I will never doubt you.'

'It was because I was sure of you that I have ventured to tell you
this.'

'You may be sure of me,' she said, sobbing violently the while. 'You are
sure of me; are you not? And now tell it me all. How did she say so? why
did she say so? Is she c